
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/566840.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Intercrural_Sex, Knotting, Comeplay, Angsty_Schmoop,
      Psychological_Trauma, Past_Relationship(s)
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-18 Words: 8104
****** Wish I Was the Moon Tonight ******
by BewareTheIdes15
Summary
     “You wanna fuck me.” He purrs it like the certainty that Derek would
     love to pretend it isn’t. Worse, like a dare, because Stiles plays
     with werewolves like other kids use street drugs.
Notes
     This is a sequel to A_Wild_of_Nothing, but can mostly be read without
     it. All you really need to know was that Derek had a spell cast on
     him to turn him feral and committed semi dub-con (though Stiles was
     into it) frottage on our dear Stilinski boy.
     This is my first go at writing Derek's voice and I'm really not sure
     how I feel about it, but it got way too long and took up too much
     time to not post, so *hands*. I am only partway through S2 so this
     may not be 100% canon compliant. Title from the song of the same name
     by Neko Case.
     NOTE AS TO PAIRING/WARNINGS: Kate Argent is not actually in this
     story so I chose not to include her in the pairing, however Derek
     does think of her and their sexual relationship (non-graphically)
     numerous times. Though there is no present or past non-con, Derek
     does have some definite trauma regarding his relationship with Kate
     which also bleeds over into his sexual self. Because of this, the fic
     could potentially be triggery for some. To my largely unsquickable
     mind, it's pretty mild in this fic, but you know your own sensitivity
     level. Be kind to yourself - if you are worried this could cause you
     pain, please do not read.
This has gotten out of hand.
Coming back to himself with the hazy ache of magic nested behind his eyeballs
and the taste of Stiles on his tongue had been bad enough. Distorted memories
of lithe muscle trapped under him and strong, willowy hands, the body-rich
smell of come, had all been bad enough. The phantom tingle of teeth marks that
had faded before Derek was even himself again. The questions banked in the
packs’ eyes. The days and days when Stiles still carried a whiff of Derek's
scent on his skin under a layer of soap.
The nights running through the woods around the Stilinski house, raw fear
rattling his bones that Stiles would be in danger if Derek wasn’t on hand to
protect him.
The sick, clawing, crawling need.
Out of hand.
If it was only his wolf side it would be one thing. Derek was raised to pay
attention to his instincts, but he's not ruled by them. Control is an art he's
carved into himself through years of work and will, but control can only take
him so far when his humanity craves the same thing. Has craved it, apparently.
Derek’s gotten so good at fighting the impulse he hadn’t even noticed. How much
time and energy he spends on Stiles. Thinking about him. Being near him. That
face and voice and scent always in the outer orbits of Derek’s awareness. Here
he’d thought Stiles was just preternaturally annoying, but the wolf doesn’t
know how to lie to himself.
Stiles doesn’t make the revelation easy to ignore, either. He stands in front
of Derek and rambles and snarks and licks his lips every four seconds in what
is either a debilitating nervous tick or a completely intentional shot at
driving Derek insane. Because he oozes ‘sixteen and sex-hungry’ out of his
pores, clogs up the air with it until Derek’s nose burns. It’s like a time
machine, breathing around him; slip-slide backward into five-foot-eight and
skinny, pissed off that he can jump higher and run faster than any guy at
school and still isn’t allowed to try out for the basketball team.
Derek remembers in his bones what it was like to be that young and hungry and
wild. Not a boy, but not a man either; unfulfilled, edgy, chafing at skin that
refused to fit right regardless of his form. Jittery with desperation.
Stiles has had a taste now of satisfaction and it's never been in his nature to
disguise a need. He wore being in love with Lydia like a brand on his skin, not
knowing or not caring that the whole world could see it. Now he looks at Derek
that way - a plea, from honey-brown eyes to gangly legs, pink splotches above
his jawline going red, tempting Derek to press his lips there and test the
heat.
Derek also remembers what it was like to be taken advantage of at that age,
naive as a pup and so stupidly willing. Hot hands on his skin, words like burnt
sugar and arsenic whispered in his ear. Remembers it like the taste of smoke
that’ll never wash clean from the back of his throat. So he won’t touch Stiles.
Can’t. Shouldn’t.
Which doesn't do a thing to explain why he's climbing through Stiles' window.
It's cool from the crack of space Stiles had left between the sash and sill,
crisp nature smells muddling the edges of the deeper, ground-in scents of
fabric softener and boysweat. A deep breath of it is a balm on nerves that have
no business being frazzled, loosening Derek's shoulders at the same time it
ratchets up his heart rate.
He shouldn't be here. Giving in to this can only make it worse in the long run,
but the sensation of helplessness is the same as that spell he keeps hoping is
still infesting his system just so he'll have an excuse. He shouldn't be here.
He doesn't want to be anywhere else.
Stiles' room is the same casual semi-chaos as always, clutter on every
available surface, random assortment of clothes that didn't make it to the
laundry basket in the corner. Last time Derek was here he'd knocked it over and
rolled in them. Some of the clothes from the closet too. Might have broken the
hanger rod. It's all a blur.
They’ve hardly spoken about it since. A few jokes have been made, some light
teasing, but for all that the betas can be self-involved idiots, they’ve got
better intuition than he generally gives him credit for. None of them has asked
about it, and none have given Stiles as hard a time as he would have bet on.
"This is why everyone buys it when you get accused of felonies."
Derek's vision brightens, full contrast in shades of blood. He fights the itch
of lengthening claws and teeth, swallows against the thunder in his chest.
Stiles should know better than to startle something like him, but knowing
better has never seems to stop Stiles. If anything, it eggs him on.
"Just so you know," is swaddled in a yawn, heavy as the eyelids Stiles peeks at
him from under. The beat of his heart is sleepy-slow in Derek's ears. Barely
awake enough to count, but of course he has something smart ass to say.
He's sunk deep into his pillow, arms tucked around it. Belly down and legs
strewn everywhere in a tangle of sheets. One foot is moving in a slow arc, back
and forth, swish swish swish against cotton. Too pointless to be intentional.
Habit, then, self-soothing. He's probably done it since he was little, all
short-limbed and chubby to fit with that babyface, lulling himself to sleep
with rhythm like a pulse. Derek had always had the sounds of siblings and
cousins, a living, breathing lullaby. Stiles probably would have liked it.
Probably could have piled into the middle of them and curled up, content as he
looks now. Open and eager for affection.
Derek needs to go.
Now. Go. Leave.
"Don't."
Stiles' voice is sharper this time, broken-bottle edged were he's still
dragging himself toward consciousness. His heartbeat has kicked up a notch,
eyes still dazed, but open and wet. Like his mouth. God, his mouth. Why does he
have to-
"Finally got you in the room, man, don't pussy out on me now."
Derek's six inches closer to the exit than he was when he decided to leave.
There's no way he's making it the rest of the way. Not with Stiles asking him
to stay.
And he is. Everything in the warm, heady scent of him says so. Ferric blood
rising closer to the surface, thicker locker room musk as all the sensitive,
thin-skinned places on him heat. Cotton candy strands of hope and tantalizing
fear sewing up the seams. Even just lying there, staring, he's an invitation,
just as much as the open window. Embossed and gilded when he reaches back and
paws at the t-shirt collar riding high on the nape of his neck and tugs up,
over, off.
Mostly off. He gets tangled in the tail end of it and winds up flailing
instead.
Sighing, Derek makes his wolf ease back as he trudges over to the bed to free
Stiles from yet another trap of his own making. Stiles pops free of the tangled
cloth with a grunt and a self-conscious grin.
"Not quite as smooth as I'd planned," he says. Derek's hardly paying attention.
The fabric in his hands is worn soft, saturated in Stiles. The heat in it digs
into Derek's gut like a fist, tugs at him, demands.
For over a week now he’s been trying to hold on to how he used to think of
Stiles before that witch ripped the top layer off of his denial right along
with his inhibitions. How Stiles is annoying, frustrating, impossible to deal
with. No respect for authority, can't even fathom that he might be wrong or
that any of those orders he shirks are for his own damn protection. None of
that has changed, except for the way it sounds in Derek's head.
"What?" The word is muffled, Stiles busy chewing on his lip at the same time he
tries to talk. He looks as young as he actually is, all mussed and jumpy. Not
afraid of the predator inside Derek, afraid that he'll say no.
Shaking his head, Derek watches himself set a knee to the mattress like it’s
someone else’s body. Feels the shift in weight as Stiles moves toward it like
he's magnetized. Or maybe the other way around. A palm settles fitfully on his
thigh, burning hot through denim, faintly damp. Timid, skittish as a newborn
fawn. As if Derek needed encouragement to see prey in Stiles.
Only no, not at all. Stiles is like prey if Bambi had a diabolical plot to lure
the hunters to their death. Stiles is a wolf in sheep's clothing, and all the
more dangerous because he doesn't even know it. Stiles just might be the
deadliest thing in Beacon Hills.
"Any chance you're gonna say, like, anything at all here?” Stiles’ voice is
nervous-high as he rolls over onto his back; impetuously making room for Derek.
“'Cause I'm kinda starting to question if we really took care of that spell
thing or not, considering the circumstances, and I'd at least like to know what
my odds are with the throat-ripping teeth scenario and did you really piss in
my bushes?"
Derek freezes in the middle of hitching a leg over to straddle Stiles’ body. He
doesn’t remember deciding to do that in the first place, but here he is. It
looks awkward, he’s sure, but he can’t be bothered with that right now.
“Oh my God, you pissed in my bushes?”
“Did Scott tell you that?”
“You pissed in my bushes!” Stiles repeats, tone morphing into some combination
of incredulous and delighted. He’s a very odd child.
Child. Yes, remember the child part.
Derek’s face is burning. He hasn’t blushed since he was in middle school, but
he had better self-control back then than he generally musters around Stiles.
He eases back, moving to step off and away from the bed. Out the window if he
can manage it.
He can’t.
Stiles sets a hand to his hip, tugs, strong for a bird-boned human who seems to
spend most of his energy slumped over books and computers. That just leads
Derek to thinking about what Stiles might be doing with his hands and how often
to build up that kind of strength. That way lies madness. Luckily, he can
always count on Stiles to interrupt his train of thought.
“Hey no, it’s cool. I’m kinda flattered, actually. As long as it’s just the
bushes. This isn’t going to turn into a watersports thing, right, because I
think there needs to be, like, safewords and rubber sheets and I’ve never even
had my dick touched by an actual person who isn’t me so there’s a good chance
I’d end up pee-shy and that would be awkward and-“
Despite the constant motion and the fact that most days Derek can see the gears
in Stiles’ head turning a mile a minute, Stiles doesn’t actually babble much.
For some reason Derek feels better knowing that he’s not the only one who’s
lost control of himself.
“I promise not to pee on you.” Derek puts an effort into curving his mouth
upward by way of a reassurance. It doesn’t sit quite right and the corners of
it keep twitching like his muscles don’t understand. “Tonight.”
The confused little grin that bleeds across Stiles’ face is a worthy reward,
however uncomfortable Derek may be about the way that pleased feeling curls up
in his belly and purrs. “Was that… did you just make a joke? Oh my God, this is
a dream, isn’t it?”
“Stiles. Shut up.”
It feels nothing but natural when he lays his hand across Stiles’ throat. Not
really pressing, just letting it rest there, cupping. Under his palm, Stiles’
Adam’s apple shifts on a loud swallow. Derek can feel his heartbeat now, on top
of hearing it. A feedback loop that has no excuse for being as reassuring as it
is.
Without a second thought, Derek finds himself leaning over into Stiles’ space –
one arm worming beneath Stiles’ pillow, the other crooked at a mildly
uncomfortable angle so that he can keep thumbing at the pulse fluttering under
Stiles’ jaw. He’s still on his knees, ass in the air despite the stunning urge
to grind down onto Stiles instead. The position’s needlessly suggestive, and
every molecule of his being responds to it, loose and relaxed like he hasn’t
been since the pack broke the spell.
The rich, sticky smell of pheromones is like a cloud, pressed in this close.
Derek turns his face into Stiles’ neck, mouth open so the thickness of it will
settle on his tongue. Traitorous heat slinks up his spine, pitiful as a
starving dog.
“I didn’t come here for this.”
There’s no telling how long Derek’s dick has been hard for. Long enough that
the blurt of precome that pushes out of him when his lips catch on Stiles’ skin
and the flavor of it melts like sugar over Derek’s tastebuds just adds to the
damp inside his jeans.
Stiles’ breathing has gone erratic beneath Derek’s hand, rustling the hair
above his ear in choppy gusts. “Please tell me this is you still joking.”
When he leaves he’s going to reek of Stiles. His breath. Skin. The sweat dewing
at all of his delicate places. The urge to roll around and get it all over him
like a candy shell sweeps in along with the red crowding at the edges of
Derek's vision. “It shouldn’t be like this for you.”
“Uh, my decision to make, dude.” Stiles shivers as he pushes his hands under
Derek’s jacket. Gasps and stutters his hips up into nothing, Derek’s body not
quite close enough to touch.
Derek can’t resist rubbing his face against the side of Stiles’ head to feel
the silky brush of shorn hair against his lips. “You’re sixteen, your dick is
making the decisions.”
Fists tangled in Derek’s shirt, Stiles jerks at it hard enough that Derek’s
next inhale gets stuck on a collar of cotton. Stiles growls; tiny, puppyish,
terribly human, “Hypocrit.” Then his teeth find the soft spot below Derek’s ear
and clamp down.
For a second, Derek can’t see. Hear. Function. Full body meltdown from the
shockwave crashing through him. Down his spine, spiking through his groin,
unspooling along his nerves in crackles of heat lightning. His heart skip-skip-
resetting to a steady throb of Stiles Stiles Stiles.
In the blood-black behind Derek's eyelids, the world spins. His hand smacks
loud into the wall, struggling to find his balance as he tumbles backward onto
the mattress. More to the point, is shoved.
“That. Is the hottest shit ever. Like, FY-fuckin’-I.” Stiles is fumbling
against him, over him. The heel of his palm digs into Derek's sternum and his
knees knock against Derek's thighs.
It’s a memory in dissonant chords. Sweet clove perfume versus faintly sleep-
sour breath, shivery-excited against his cheek. Plush give of breasts brushing
against his arm in contrast with the hard line of heat rubbing fitfully against
Derek's leg. Short, dark-manicured nails drawing patterns instead of the bitten
ones rasping clumsily at his skin.
Derek isn't even aware of surging upward until a high, strangled consonant
knocks the sense back into his head over the roar of adrenaline. Kate would
have never cried out. Kate would have growled, "That's my boy," and savaged his
lips with a grin half-turned into a kiss.
Stiles is different.
When Derek opens his eyes, everything is painted a panic-inducing crimson. His
own sight, not blood, but it could have been. So easily could have been sinew
and muscle sticking under his claws instead of the wisps of thread and blanket-
fluff when he jerks his hand away from pinning Stiles to the bed by the neck.
His palm feels sticky like it's true, but there's only sweat there when Derek
looks. Kills a minute watching his fingers tremble. It's better than the
alternative.
In his periphery, he can see Stiles slowly sitting up, his own hand rubbing at
the rising bruises on his skin.
"So, uh," Stiles coughs, clears his throat, tries again, "Note to self: Derek
likes to be on top. That's cool, I can work with that." He stinks of fear like
molasses and tar, sickly sweet and primally tempting with the way it's layered
over that newly-familiar, bubbling want. How can he still… How can he?
The headboard rattles against the wall when Derek slumps back against it. He
should be grateful the sheriff isn't home, with all the racket they've made,
but at least then he'd have a reason to force himself to leave. Instead he
buries his head in his hands and tries to bring the wolf to ground again. He
hasn't been this out of control since he was fourteen.
“The fi- my first.” The words sound dull in his own ears, muffled against his
palms.
He doesn’t say ‘only’.
It always seemed like the cruelest joke of all that everything important in his
life was reduced to smoking rubble while the thing that caused it all refused
to ever burn out. Smoldering and licking at his insides over a pair of pretty
eyes or smooth skin or an honest smile. The pain should have purged it from his
system, scoured it out and left him hollow, but the want stayed and fed on him
instead. Leached at him every time someone made his heart race.
Even with Laura the words wouldn’t come. After years of her worrying and
fussing that he needed to have a life. Practically throwing him at girls and
boys and anyone he so much as looked at twice. He could never tell her, not
with so many other sins tied up in it. Too selfish to risk losing the only
thing he had left. To let her see why this desire in him is so dangerous,
untrustworthy. He’ll never have the chance to now.
“She killed them.”
It isn’t enough information by half, but he knows there have been clues before,
plenty for someone as smart and dogged as the fragile human hovering a foot out
of his reach. Stiles has always been better at understanding Derek than he has
any right to be.
“You wouldn’t hurt me. Not for real.” Roughed up as it is, Stiles voice is
steady. So relentlessly certain that Derek can’t not look at him.
Eyeing the dark shape of fingers mapped out in broken capillaries under Stiles'
chin, Derek barks a husk of a laugh. “You have too much faith in my nature.”
Stiles rolls his eyes so hard Derek can hear the slick of fluid moving against
the lid. “I’ve had your nature all up in my business, dude. I think I might
know it better than you do."
Contrary to all reason and logic, Stiles rolls his knees underneath him and
starts crawling up the bed. Derek's been operating under the assumption for a
while now that Stiles doesn't actually have survival instincts.
"Your nature had the chance to do any fucking thing it wanted to me. You
couldn't remember your own pack, but you were going to protect me from them."
He's halted at Derek's side, avoiding climbing over Derek's legs and boxing him
in, but still very much in his space. "I don’t care if you don’t trust
yourself, I do."
He looks determined and sincere and… good, the wolf supplies, with eye for how
Stiles has braced himself on all fours, the mild slope as the small of his back
tips up into his ass. Derek tries to tamp down on the swell of heat in his gut,
but his wolf thinks that Stiles is making a good point. His wolf is worse than
a teenage boy about being led around by his dick, though, or he wouldn't be in
this situation in the first place.
Either Stiles picks up on the weakness, or he has a natural predatory gift.
"Now stow the emo monster act and get over here, jackass," he gripes, closing
in on a murmur as he leans forward and puts his mouth up close to Derek's. "You
owe me so much making out, you don't even know.”
Derek can't imagine what he must look like right now. The red has mostly bled
out of his field of vision, but his claws are still extended and his teeth feel
packed too tightly in his mouth to be blunt and safe. He'd never had to
struggle this much to keep the wolf inside when he'd been with Kate, even in
the heat of the moment, so he's never given any real thought to someone kissing
him this way. To someone wanting to. But then Stiles' lips are on his, this
urgent, whining hum shaking free even before they touch and it doesn't really
matter what Derek has thought about before.
This. This.
For a long moment it's just warm and uncoordinated. Chapped lips snagging on
Derek's and teeth bumping through the soft cushion of flesh. Cautious fingers
moving along his jaw, scritching through the hair at the nape of his neck to
make Derek's eyelids droop. Instinctual, he sweeps his tongue out, turning the
drag slick. Stiles moans and opens up for it like all he's been waiting for is
permission. Like Stiles has the capacity to care about permission.
It should be harder than this. Is harder than this. But it's not, either. It's
the wet slide of tongues and muted, hungry noises. It's Stiles' pressing
against him like he thinks Derek's going to walk away now, after all the
opportunities for it he failed to make good on. It's the jagged, excited
breaths on his cheek that turn into an almost-laugh, when Stiles' mouth skids
off course. This delighted, disbelieving sound as if having Derek in his bed is
something remarkable. Not a terrible, stupid mistake neither of them seems to
be able to avoid making.
God help him, Derek adores it.
He gets the feeling, from the way Stiles moves, mimics him, that Stiles may not
have done much of this before. Done anything before. For all that there are
very few substances on the planet that can touch Derek's sobriety, he's out of
his head with how intoxicating that thought is.
Most of the time he forgets how close in size he and Stiles really are. Stiles
is so good at making himself seem smaller. Big clothes and the hunched slope of
his shoulders and his stupid, little boy haircut. Derek could still throw
Stiles around like a ragdoll without breaking a sweat. Has. But there’s
something about Stiles being as big as he is that sticks, matters, as Derek
rolls them onto their sides. Something that makes it better. The lean strength,
and maddeningly clever mind. Sureness crafted into the nimble fingers digging
at Derek's shoulders. Gravity in the curl of his body, eliminating the space
between them. Demanding what he wants whenever Derek hesitates to give it.
He could be a leader. A match. A mate.
Breaking the kiss, Derek gasps in a harsh breath that’s ice water hitting his
lungs. The hand Stiles has twisted in his hair tugs like a warning he's too
busy sucking on Derek's neck to voice.
Derek almost wants to laugh at himself, but he knows it would come out sounding
broken. Of course this is what he would do. Let himself get twisted up over
someone he could never have a life with and not even realize it until he’s
already in over his head. He's thought he was going to spend the rest of his
life with everyone he's ever wanted to sleep with. That it's a small sample
size doesn't change how true it is.
But then Stiles isn’t the same as Kate there either. However enthralled Derek
was, his wolf had never responded to her the way it does to Stiles. Never felt
the need to hover and possess and protect. To roll belly up and be owned. His
human side knows the danger. Betrayal. The destruction that comes with it. The
wolf only cares about care and belonging and pack.
Stiles mumbles an unhappy sound that Derek thinks was meant to be another,
“What?” Most of his attention seems to be occupied with tearing at the
drawstring on his pajama pants, never getting around to forming the entire
syllable. Derek can’t really pretend he minds either. Even though he should.
Even though all of his reasons to run far away from here are still good ones.
The best one still the best.
He could hurt Stiles without even trying and it’s still nothing compared to
what Stiles could do to him. Claw marks and teeth scores all heal in time.
Derek shakes his head in lieu of answering. Maybe just to himself. He’s lost
track by now if any of this was really for him. Whether any of it was his
decision or if he was just looking for an excuse not to fight it all along.
He’s sliding his hands down the back of a sixteen year old’s underwear, in the
sheriff’s house, and as rough-shod as the adrenaline igniting his veins is, it
feels like nothing so much as a forgone conclusion. Who knows how long Stiles
has had a leash on him, but Derek’s got a feeling it was there well before
magic got involved.
That ass fits perfectly into Derek’s hands, skinny little bump to match the
rest of his body. High, tight mound of muscle from lacrosse games he never gets
to play in. From running around the woods with a pack he’s hardly equipped to
keep pace with. Derek buries a whine at the thought of ‘tight’ into the stingy
give of Stiles’ chest. The last thing he needs is to let his mind travel that
direction. He’s already in forbidden territory.
Not that he has any choice in the matter. Stiles send the whole thing off the
rails anyway, humping backward into Derek’s hands and his dick forward
haphazardly against Derek’s hip. He’s so sloppy and new and innocent. All of
that hot, unmarked skin that’s never felt the touch of another hand. Never been
with another body.
The skin pulled tight over Stiles’ collarbone proves a temptation he can’t
resist when Stiles tips his head back on a moan. Derek fits his mouth to it and
breathes in teenage lust like a narcotic. Savory and deep, thick with the loamy
earth smell of a straining human body. Of Stiles, in particular.
Derek is older, marginally more experienced. He’s alpha. He should have more
control than to whimper when Stiles works his shirt up high enough to get his
mouth on Derek’s chest. Soft heat and suction and those bites. Those bites that
make him feel insane. That set his wolf back on its haunches and howling.
He gasps Stiles’ name, fingers tightening until Stiles hisses and grinds his
teeth around a mound of Derek’s flesh. His stomach muscles bunch with the force
of the next spurt of precome that leaks out of him.
“Fuck,” Stiles slurs, licking across where his teeth marks are already fading
from Derek’s skin. “So hot. Is that, like, a wolf thing or are you just kinky
like that? ‘Cause, seriously, negative number of complaints here, I’m just
saying that shit is kinky and I haven’t noticed any of the betas gnawing on
each other for kicks or whatever. I mean Sc-“
Stiles’ hair is too short to get a grip on, so Derek settles for pressing
Stiles’ face against him to shut him up. “If you say Scott’s name right now I’m
going to leave.”
Which is a blatant lie, but also gets Stiles to stop talking and starting
paying more attention to getting Derek’s jeans undone.
That’s another issue altogether.
The denim gives way easily once Stiles works the zipper past where Derek is
bulging against it. When his dick pops out into the open air, bare and wet, he
has one of those rare moments when he considers the merits of expanding his
wardrobe to include underwear.
“Oh,” Stiles breathes, hushed, forehead braced against Derek’s pec as he looks
down, so all Derek can see is the top of his head, “Wow. Uh.”
Heat rising in his faceagain, Derek fights the urge to pull away and tuck
himself back in. This has never been a problem before either. With Kate he’d
always had plans. Spent more time than he’d like to admit imagining giving her
his knot, waiting for the right moment to show her. To ask. But it had never
happened of its own volition. He can’t blame Stiles for being stunned.
“I, uh, I researched this. I mean, not this this.” Careful fingers wrap
themselves around the shaft, stroking until the foreskin slides down enough to
expose the shiny, red head. “There’s not, like, a manual on werewolf sex out
there, although, we should make one of those. That’d be fucking handy.” The
curl of his fist bumps against the faint swelling around the base and Stiles’
breath stutters. Derek balls his hands in the bedding to distract himself from
bucking into it. Hopes Stiles didn’t have a strong attachment to these sheets.
“Heh! Handy.”
“The knot,” Stiles whispers, as if it’s a secret when he’s got his eyes locked
on it right this second. Derek wonders what he read and where, how far off the
mark it was. Gets caught somewhere between laughing and moaning at the curious
fascination on the face Stiles turns up toward him. He’s got no doubt Stiles
was the kid who couldn’t take anyone’s word the iron was hot, had to touch it
for himself before he’d believe it would burn.
“Does it hurt?” Stiles' heartbeat is deafening to Derek’s ears. Fast. Avid. He
doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s feathering touches around the flushed
ring of flesh.
Biting his own lips shut, Derek pushes into the touch. He’s felt himself like
this plenty of times. Around the full moon, when the drive gets to be too much
to block out, partially shifted and acutely sensitive. Having Stiles do it is
nothing close to the same. He’s gentle where Derek tends toward rough,
exploratory where Derek’s perfunctory. All the intensity he applies to learning
new uses for mountain ash and researching the paranormal mixed bag that fate
keeps throwing at them is focused on Derek’s body. What makes him shiver, what
makes him squirm. His entire being catalogued by Stiles’ roaming eyes.
No one ever gives Stiles enough credit for how much he sees. How much he sees
though.
“So that’s a no on the hurting?” Stiles is smirking, breathless and grinning
and evil. Pure evil. Pure, glorious, firm handed, deft fingered- Fuck.
Stiles toys at the foreskin with his thumb, pushing it down past the ridge and
back up. Does it again, this time circling the slit with the slick pad of a
finger, slowly enough to make Derek’s eyelids flutter.
“Yeah, you like that,” Stiles says smugly, nipping at Derek’s chin, damn him.
“You like that so much.” His hand slides down, fingers splaying as he hits the
knot and squeezing. “Know something else you like too.”
His voice comes out too shaky to match the confidence in the words. Stiles in a
nutshell; cripplingly familiar with failure and willing to fling himself into
its path anyway. Then Stiles’ tongue is pressing to Derek’s jaw, and Derek
can’t focus enough to analyze Stiles’ psychology. Wet velvet dragging
deliberately up the curve of bone. Backing up. Doing it all over again.
Any chance Derek might have had at denying exactly how right Stiles is about
him dissolves with the emphatic flex of his dick in Stiles' grip. Kate hadn’t-
She’d known, knowing was the point, the only reason she’d ever touched him to
begin with. But he hadn’t known she’d known, so she’d never played into it; the
quirks of his natural predilection toward touch, the places where his wolf side
and the human one mesh into something that is both and neither.
Stiles licks over his skin slowly, thorough. Up past the rasp of stubble onto
his cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of his eye. Intimate enough to flay
Derek raw.
The boldness in Stiles’ touch builds as the drag of his palm gets slicker. He’s
still unpracticed, stroke going arrhythmic whenever some small difference in
Derek’s body intrigues him into investigating further. But there’s a
proprietary edge to it too, like he’s aware that Derek might stop him, but not
that he wouldn’t, shouldn't, have the right to touch in the first place.
The curve of Stiles’ smile presses against Derek’s ear, punch-drunk puff of a
laugh when Derek growls and hauls him in closer, smashing Stiles’ hand between
their bodies.
“You wanna fuck me.” He purrs it like the certainty that Derek would love to
pretend it isn’t. Worse, like a dare, because Stiles plays with werewolves like
other kids use street drugs.
Derek’s not proud of anything he’s done tonight, but the way his dick leaks
when Stiles shimmies out of his underwear might be the worst. Might even be
worse than letting Stiles angle his cock down and slip it into the hot, damp
space between Stiles’ thighs. Because letting it happen is bad, but wanting it,
aching for it, that’s the point where he loses his tenuous claim on
righteousness.
The noise that jolts out of Derek as he bucks forward against the sticky, soft
skin of Stiles’ balls is something pre-verbal, infantile. Stripped bare as he
was born by this child, who isn’t a child at all. Who’s hardly younger than
Derek, when it comes down to it. Who’s more, in so many ways, than most adults
will ever be.
Stiles moans like he’s the one getting something out of it. Jostles his knees
against Derek’s to squeeze his thighs together. The friction is nerve-
shredding. Too harsh to feel good and somehow perfect. Derek shouldn’t like it
as much as he does, but then that’s true about most of the things he likes.
Stiles isn’t so much pliant under his hands as he is willing, content to move
how Derek wants, let Derek touch wherever. As if Stiles would have any real
chance at stopping him if things went beyond his threshold.
And Derek? Derek has a brand new reason to hate himself because that thought
nails him straight in the balls. Makes him grab at Stiles’ skin, cup a hand to
the sweet curve of his ass and really grind so Stiles’ dick leaves thick smears
on both their bellies. Stiles couldn’t stop him if he wanted to, and he doesn’t
want to. Every bitten groan and shudder says all he wants is Derek.
Like a struck chord, orgasm spikes through Derek, shock bleeding out into
pleasure as his body clenches and his mind grapples with the sudden maelstrom
of sensation. It shakes him to the foundations, bright and burning and then
Stiles works his hand between them and squeezes around Derek's knot and he
suddenly understands all of that poetic license about the little death. Minus
the little.
Of course Stiles can’t shut up.
“Jesus, I was wrong, this the hottest shit ever. Fuckin' look at you, you can't
even stop, can you? You're just gonna keep going til it's all over me. Gonna
give me all of it, aren't you?”
Derek's going to assume those are rhetorical questions because he can't get his
lungs to work right now. All of the nerve-endings in his body have
spontaneously migrated to his cock and they are all busy writing love notes to
Stiles.
"That is so fucking gross," Stiles moans, ecstatic, wriggling so that the
shocky-sensitive head of Derek's dick skids over his hole, smearing it wet with
the come Stiles keeps milking out of him. Clearly he has a unique relationship
with 'gross'.
Derek can't stop thrusting with Stiles' coaxing hand on him. Stiles' voice in
his ear, rough and strung-out with desire thick as the slippery mess drenching
the space between Stiles' thighs. Whispering about smelling like Derek, if the
pack will be able to tell, if Derek wants them to, wants Stiles to leave it,
wear it around like an advertisement, make everybody think Stiles is his, his
boy, his bitch.
Stiles comes in the middle of his own pornographic ramble, and oh, Derek knows
the feeling. He probably would too if he wasn’t already. He hasn’t even gotten
a hand on Stiles, so out of control he’d be risking slicing Stiles open to do
it, but Stiles might be young enough that he doesn’t need it anyway. Or he
might just be that easy. Either way, he’s stuttering his cock up against
Derek's stomach, spreading wet heat between them.
His hand clenches just-right-too-tight where he’s still gripping Derek’s knot,
but it's the smell that makes Derek's eyes roll back in his head. Makes him
grab Stiles and mash their mouths together. Lick at the slack shape of Stiles'
tongue.
It’s perfect, that scent. Him and Stiles and Stiles and him. Them. Together.
It’s so good he can’t stand it. Is shaking with it. Hurts from how hard the
next spasm of orgasm hits, like his body really is going to give Stiles
everything. Every last scrap of himself to claim that salt-sweet skin.
“I admit- huh-“ Stiles is panting, but he’s still trying to talk, voice deep
and a little thready. Derek decides to allow himself the bone-deep glow of
pride at that. “That I don’t have- much of a frame of- reference. But I’m
pretty sure- this is not acc- acceptable post-coital- uh-“ He breaks off as
Derek moves on from nosing at the mole on his left cheek and nudges Stiles'
head back to start licking the sweat away from the column of his throat.
“Thingie.”
“Thingie?” Derek doesn’t move his mouth from Stiles’ skin, but it doesn’t do
much to smother the goofy smile he can feel taking over his face. He’s going to
blame it on the fact that he’s still, slowly, coming.
"Oh fuck you. Like I can think when you're getting licky with it."
Just because he can, Derek takes to opportunity to lap a wide stripe over
Stiles' Adam's apple. Feel the hitch of Stiles' breath against his lips. The
jerk of his half-soft cock in the pan of Derek's pelvis.
This must be the allure of getting high, Derek thinks. This pleasantly heavy,
dopey sensation where everything feels good, contented.
It's bizarre.
It's making him sort of nervous, actually.
"You done?" Stiles asks after a while, finally letting go of Derek's cock to
wrap both arms around Derek's shoulders and pulling until Derek's rolled on top
of him. Derek goes with it, too boneless to argue. Enjoying it more than he
should when Stiles' legs part for him to settle between.
"I…" Derek hesitates, shifting his hips so that his dick moves through the
sludgy mess he's made on Stiles' skin. He's not soft yet, and his knot is still
distinctly swollen, but the little undulating waves of pleasure have settled
down and his balls don't feel tugged up tight anymore. He nods sharply in
answer, suddenly unsure where to put his hands.
Afterward, Kate usually had somewhere to go or something to do. Or else fondled
him until he was ready for another round. Stiles looks too dazed for either of
those things but he's not letting go of Derek either so Derek's not sure what
he's supposed to be doing.
It's nice, though. Here. Stiles' body is warm and he smells good. Really good.
His heartbeat has slowed down enough that it's a lull in the back of Derek's
head. Coupled with the way Stiles' fingers keep moving against his skin -
tracing the shape of the tattoo, he thinks - Derek could almost fall asleep.
"So, ok, I'll give you the biting thing, people are into biting, but this
tongue bath deal, that's total weirdo werwolf-ness, right?"
Stiles is grinning at the ceiling when Derek looks up. His skin is flushed,
still a little damp, but his eyes are bright and intense. There's a spot
blooming under his ear that would just match the shape of Derek's mouth. He
looks beautiful and young and so much like something that Derek could call his
own that Derek feels sick for a second.
"I should go," is what he says, when he can without it turning to ash in his
mouth. Not that there’s much point in leaving now. The damage is well and truly
done.
The come is turning sticky between their bodies, clings in spider-silk strands
to his stomach and legs and dick as Derek peels himself away. Stiles wrinkles
his nose at it. Apparently 'gross' has lost its appeal.
"That's gonna get old, you know," says Stiles as he swipes a stripe through the
cooling fluid on his thigh and tests the texture of it between his fingertips.
He brings it up close to his face to sniff. Carefully touches his tongue to it
and makes a thoughtful noise.
"I mean, if you go all Heathcliff Von Sourwolf and howl your manpain out on the
heathered moors what the fuck ever every time we screw around I'm going to
stage an intervention."
He's looking at Derek now, but he's also still curiously kitten-licking at the
thin sheen of come on the pad of his thumb in between words.
Derek has entirely lost the thread of this conversation.
"Seriously, dude, intervention. The whole pack. We'll write letters and talk
about our feelings." Gingerly, Stiles shifts, nudging Derek repeatedly with his
knees until Derek gathers enough braincells to stand up and make room for
Stiles to swing his legs over the side of the bed. "It'd be way easier on you
to just sleep over."
Trying to make sense of all that and failing miserably, Derek watches dumbly as
Stiles snags a pair of plaid boxer shorts off the floor and sloppily cleans
himself up. It’s not a particularly attractive show, with one lanky leg hiked
up on the desk so Stiles can mop behind his balls. Derek finds it strangely
endearing.
“So,” Stiles prompts, lobbing the wadded ball of fabric at the hamper and
actually hooking it in. He grins and does a little wiggle that might qualify as
a victory dance. He really does have a good body. Young and in the works yet,
but still appealing in its own way. A few years and everybody with eyes is
going to be throwing themselves at him. “Cozy, mildly jizzed on bed or the
betas sharing and caring about their daddy issues?”
It could be that Derek is too stunned from the events of the last half hour to
think clearly, or it could be that Stiles has yet to master the concept that
everyone else doesn’t hear the parts of the conversation that happen in Stiles’
head. Either way, it isn’t until that moment that Derek gets it.
Stiles said ‘every time’. Stiles wants to sleep with him.
Stiles said every time.
A silky, soothing heat flushes through Derek’s body. Thrilled and nervous and
happy. Makes him want to run and makes him want to stay so intensely that for a
second he can’t breathe through the paradox. And then like a tangle pulled just
the right way, everything loosens and he just feels light.
After a pause that is probably only slightly too long, Derek arches an eyebrow
at the bed. “Mildly?”
With a critical expression only a cartoon character should be able to manage,
Stiles huffs, “Hey, man, you’re the one who set off the spooge grenade where we
have to sleep.”
He’s kicking aside molehills of clothing as he talks, though, at last coming up
with a towel that he flings across the worst of the wet spot. It smells faintly
of mildew, as if Stiles had abandoned it to the clutter still damp, but the
room is thick enough with the mingled scents of sex and the two of them that it
doesn’t bother Derek much.
“If anyone ‘set it off’, it was you,” Derek points out flatly. Shucking his
jacket and pulling off his twisted, fist-crumpled tee in the process probably
weakens his argument, he imagines. Somehow he doesn’t mind.
Stiles is grinning when Derek looks at him again. Smug is oddly fitting on his
face.
“Yeah, I did.” He even wags his eyebrows. His eyes are roaming over Derek’s
torso, the jeans that are still clinging to his hips and his dick where he
hasn’t gotten around to tucking it away again.
Derek’s spent his whole life among humans, pretending to be one of them. He
knows that bodies, nudity, are a big deal to them and on a surface level, he
understands it. That attitude never stood much of a chance in him, given his
way of life, so it’s nothing to Derek to shove the denim the rest of the way
off and step out of it. The tiny, strained noise Stiles makes in the back of
his throat is gratifying, though.
“Lock the window,” Derek commands when Stiles just stands there with his mouth
hanging open. Staring. And smelling like want again.
Alright, very gratifying.
“Hm? Right, yeah,” Stiles responds dazedly. He fumbles at the window, taking
twice as long to get the latch closed as it should reasonably take since he
refuses to take his eyes off of Derek. His, “Really happening,” is so quiet
under his breath that Derek doubts he was supposed to hear it.
Derek waits for Stiles to crawl into the bed before following. Makes a
protective wall out of his back between Stiles and the rest of the room. There
haven’t been any inklings of impending danger since they took care of the
witch, but Derek still feels more settled knowing anything that comes with have
to get past him to reach Stiles.
Stiles is all warm, sticky skin, between the sheets. Hands that keep brushing
at Derek in not quite casual ways. Fidgety too. He readjusts the towel
underneath them twice. Can’t seem to find a comfortable position for his legs.
Finally Derek gets frustrated with it and urges Stiles around so that his back
is to Derek’s chest and Derek’s got a firm arm slung across his waist to hold
him in place.
Not the best thought out plan because that fits Stiles’ naked ass against
Derek’s equally naked groin.
“This is not sleeping,” Derek growls. He had let the first tentative shifts of
Stiles’ hips go, hoping that Stiles was just trying to get nest in. Obviously
he should know better. Stiles is horny and devious by nature – he is not above
exploiting such a tactical advantage.
Stiles hums a noise that is neither affirmative nor negative and keeps rubbing
himself back against Derek’s steadily hardening dick. He’s getting all heated
up again and he smells so good and the back of his neck is right there,
practically begging for another pretty, mouth-shaped bruise.
He means for, “Stiles,” to be a warning, but it spills out of his mouth in the
middle of rolling Stiles onto his stomach and molding himself on top.
Stiles arches under him. Lets loose a parody of a growl and sinks blunt teeth
into the muscle of Derek’s forearm. The pain shoots directly to Derek’s cock
and tightens into sick, sweet pleasure. “What’s the point of a healing factor
if you can’t pull an all nighter every once and a while?”
It doesn’t take much to slot himself between Stiles’ ass cheeks, ride against
all that soft skin. Every time the head of Derek’s cock bumps up against his
hole, Stiles moans like he has a clue what he’s asking for. That might just be
because the pressure grinds his own dick down into the bed, but Derek’s
ignoring that part for now. However stupid a mistake this may turn out to have
been, Derek’s committed now. For tonight at least. And he’s not one to back
down from a challenge.
If Stiles wants all night, Derek will give him all night. He just hopes there’s
another towel laying around here somewhere.
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